


Memories of the Grey

by paraparadigm



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Fluff, One-Shot, Prompt Fill, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-19
Updated: 2020-03-19
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:55:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23215891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paraparadigm/pseuds/paraparadigm
Summary: A reunion between Malika Cadash and Blackwall (set sometime after Wicked Eyes and Wicked Hearts)
Relationships: Blackwall/Cadash (Dragon Age), Blackwall/Female Inquisitor
Comments: 14
Kudos: 32





	Memories of the Grey

**Author's Note:**

  * For [VisceralComa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/VisceralComa/gifts).



> NSFW, please read accordingly.

He had a feeling it was going to go badly for them — well, for him, because he’d be damned if he let the Inquisitor pick up on whatever shit he happened to drag to the table — the second his fingers began to pick apart the lacing at the back of her dress. Her skin was cool beneath the fabric. Too rich for the likes of him, Orlesian brocade with a pattern of inverted lys, subtle, painfully minuscule stitching, midnight on silver. The skin too, was smooth as silk and soft and wasted on his calloused hands. But the damned lacing was a pattern he knew all too well. His fingers loosened the ribbonwork with a familiar _swoosh_ - _swoosh-swoosh_ , dragging memories back like something trapped, then released. She was much shorter, his Inquisitor, and she filled out the dress in a way that lumped in his throat and then shot right to his groin if he made the mistake of staring too long. He anchored his eyes on the pattern of tattoos along her spine — blocky, geometrical, inky black, reminding himself that this was not one of the varnished courtiers he’d bent over a barrel in some cobweb-riddled wine-cellar and fucked into strings of gasping Orlesian nonsense because someone, somewhere had thrown a dare, or made a bet, and gold changed hands, some of it even ending up in his own pocket at the end of the night. It never mattered who, or why, or when, not in the heady mix of wine and rose oil, in the haze of The Game’s smaller, pettier fragments. Crumbs thrown under the table for the curs to lap up, and he’d been a fool — of course he’d been a fool — because once upon a time he’d actually imagined himself a participant.

“Thank the Ancestors you know your way around these damned things.” Her voice was full of hidden laughter, and it yanked him out of his sinking.

The dress fell away, pooling on the floor, and Malika kicked it into the corner, ignoring the strands of hay the garment gathered along its short trajectory. Rainier watched her bend over to undo the buckles on her shoes, and felt torn between ogling her backside and wincing sympathetically at the sight of her swollen ankles.

“Paragons’… fucking… hairy… arsholes, I _hate_ those Orlesian torture devices,” she grumbled under her breath. One shoe went flying and hit the back wall. She groped for his arm without turning, hopping on one foot for balance. Then, finally unshod, she padded over to the workbench in the corner and lifted one of his old work shirts. 

“That’s not particularly clean,” he warned. 

She ignored him entirely in favor of pulling the worn tunic over her head, and thrusting her hands through the sleeves before rolling them up to her elbows.

“Clean, shmlean. Beats that...” she pointed her chin at the discarded dress, “... whatever they call it. Ever had a nug in a bun, Warden? No? Well, same rules apply...”

Rainier frowned. “May I ask how much you’ve had to drink, my lady?” 

She thrust a warning finger at him. “If anyone calls me ‘my lady’ one more time tonight, I will throttle them. And not nearly enough.”

He bit back a smile, met her eyes, and held her stare. “ _My lady_ ,” he said slowly, with just a hint of a bow.

She made good on her promise, but then again she always did. He found himself on his back, half-collapsed against one of the hay bales he used as a bedside table. The one he had been working on, he ended up giving away—Skyhold still sorely lacked furniture, lacked everything, really, and the children’s new study room was a sorry sort of thing. Besides, the table was the perfect size for the littles. Better hay at his back than hard oak, in any case, and perhaps the Maker had a gentle streak to His sense of humor.

Her mouth on his was hot, soft with wine and fatigue. “My lady-” he tried again, because he didn’t want her exhausted, and there was always the morning. She nipped at his lower lip in retaliation for the moniker—not hard, but a warning nonetheless—and he mumbled her name in belated correction, still struck by the flavor of it on his tongue, the liquid sharpness of it. He felt like a thief every time he said it. Then, her hand went down the front of his trousers and the rest was lost to a groan. His own hands had developed a mind of their own by then, against his better judgement, let alone any honorable intention he might have had. She smelled like him, and beneath it, like herself, and he cursed his fingers for their newfound clumsiness as he tried to extract her from her makeshift sleeping gown.

“Slow down, big guy. I promised tackling, I didn’t promise tumbling.” Her breath ghosted across his skin, and his arms broke out in goosebumps.

“Have mercy, Inquisitor,” he huffed. His palms brushed against her nipples—light, slow circles, undemanding, until she squirmed and rocked her hips against him. “At least let me taste you,” he pleaded, his own voice the sort of gruff that did a shite job of masking the simple need of it. It made him feel like an utter fool, though he was well past caring. Had he ever found himself begging before? He tried to recollect, but no image surfaced, no uninvited guest came knocking. Still, not like this, he was pretty certain, never from the root of him, rotten and gnarled though it may be.

“Too tired, I don’t have the focus for it.” She shifted lower, scooting down his legs, and his breath caught in his throat. He muttered a curse when the cold night air hit his skin as she pulled down his breeches. “But I fully intend to take you up on it in a few hours, after I burn off some of that wine.”

“Never turned down a challenge, if you’re of a mind to recons-... Oh, Maker’s Breath…”

Later, when the early birds began to trade calls in the predawn murk, Thom eased himself out from under their shared cocoon of furs to restack the fire. He padded around as quietly as he could, gathering her discarded dress and shoes. He draped the gown over the back of a chair, and the sight of it hanging there, with all its delicate, useless embroidery tightened his jaw with the bitter aftertaste of yet another sour memory. He turned away, hesitated, watched her stir under the pile of blankets.

“Come back to bed,” she mumbled, her voice husky with sleep.

He obeyed, sitting himself on the edge. “How awake are you?” he asked.

Tawny-gold eyes stared at him from beneath dark lashes. “Depends.”

He cleared his throat. “Owe you a debt from last night, as I recall. Can I entreat you into collecting it?”

Her cheeks dimpled. “Always so polite, Warden Blackwall...” She lifted the blankets to make room for him. “What are you doing with a disreputable castless ruffian like me?”

He’d heard it—there, between the words, in the way her question hitched before she brought it firmly under her heel, overwritten by her habitual gentle mockery. Doubt. 

More than anything, whatever else his sorry hide was good for, he wanted that hesitation gone from her.

He kneeled by the bed and brought his hands under her thighs, then tugged her closer. The nightgown rode up, revealing most of her, her skin a warm, creamy ocher in the firelight. She squealed in surprise and squirmed, but with nowhere to go, now that her knees were over his shoulders and his hands curled around her hips, she settled against his mouth. 

Soft breaths, then quiet moans, then, as his tongue and lips caught her rhythm and worked her closer to her release—a breathless, tense silence, safe for the soft wet noises of his fingers dipping into her, and fuck, but he would need to work this off later, and the memory of her mouth on his cock and her scent all across his face pulsed at the base of him in achy, restless sweetness. 

Her muscles locked and she swore, half of the consonants lost to little moans, and then, finally, she eased into soft tremors. He turned his head, kissed her inner thigh, eased her down, and waited for her to settle.

Then, finally, once her heartbeat against his ear slowed a little… “How do you feel about collecting with interest, Inquisitor?” he inquired.


End file.
